Archive for July, 2006

I’d wanted to see the city skyline as I departed my home of 6 years for good.

But as he reprimanded me for not having an appropriate “move out” outfit rather than the ratty sweats and messy bun I donned, my bearish but lovable dad took the Verazano bridge leaving only the LIRR and East Flatbush in the rearview.

But he was kind enough to stand with me in my apartment one last time and then wave goodbye with me as we drove off, but only after saying, “Brown Baby, this is bullshit and I wanna beat rush-hour.”

If you give it some thought, that line pretty much sums up the entire meaning of my time in this beloved town and the entire meaning of my departure – because as valuable as my experience here has been, it’s time for me to get off the fuckin’ pot.

The morning of my farewell/bday party (which turned out to be blast despite the following story), I received an email from X, claiming to have gotten my information from a mutual writer colleague:

My name is X and I’m a literary agent here in New York. I’ve read a couple of your pieces, some reviews and was impressed. I wanted to know what you’re up to and what you’re plans are for your writing. Feel free to call me at 212-xxx-xxxx or let me know when is a good time to reach you if you want to talk further. I look forward to hearing from you. All Best, X

My naive, struggling writer ass clapped my hands with glee and responded immediately. He wanted to meet with me that same day, hurrah. So despite my hectic schedule that day, I agreed to meet him a couple of hours before my party. We meet and things seem to be promising although within an hour of talking, I’m noticing he hasn’t exactly stated why he wanted to meet in any specific manner. When I ask, he asks me what ideas I have. So I say the ones off the top of my head but I’m still starting to get uneasy, shouldn’t he have a more concrete agenda here? One he wants to let me know about? Does he have a story idea? After nearly two hours, all we’ve done is chat about writers, publishing, mutual editors we know of. The guy was legit in that he had repped notable writers and dealt with notable editors and publishers. I was still fuzzy on what exactly we were meeting for, “Is this what agents do? Just meet potential writers and feel them out? Shouldn’t this feel a little more direct?”

Then a funny thing happened. Somehow this blog came up on my end, and somehow he was familiar with it. Then a not-so-funny thing happened, he wouldn’t say what he’d read. He didn’t say he couldn’t remember or that he just saw it in passing. He made it clear that he’d definitely seen it and read it. In my astonished embarrassment, I kept pressing him to say what exactly he’d seen but to no avail. This small part of the convo may come to matter later in the evening as you shall see.

Party time is a-coming so I make all the polite gestures of wanting to continue but sorry I have to go, but I offer to walk and talk since the bar was nearby. It’s about 10 o’clock. He agrees, we walk and talk and again, mostly social topics, not too much about writing. At one point he’s suggesting my life would be a good reality tv show…huh?

We get to the door, I make more polite fuss and make those gestures where both parties know it’s just a formality and nothing more like “How are you?” and “I love my children.” In this instance, I laughingly invited him to my party and he….accepted.

At this point, I’m getting a little unnerved and confused. But no one had arrived yet so we sat down at my reserved spot (note: the entire bar was basically for my party) and I figured he’d leave when my friends arrived. Soon, said good friends begin to arrive. Nothing. More said good friends arrive. Still sitting. Still chatting about bullshit. The manager gives me a handful of drink tickets and it begins: X takes one.

The rest of the night pretty much went as follows with intermittent booty-shaking:

10:30me: So I mean, based on what we’ve talked about what do you want me to do after this meeting ?

X: Think big

me: ….um, ok.

11:30me: You know, you really don’t have to stay, I don’t want you to think you do

X: (chuckling annoyingly which he would do throughout the night) Oh no, I go out alone all the time, it’s cool.

me: (under my breath) ..yeah me too, but I sit at the bar and chat with the staff I know. I don’t crash a private party.

midnight

More friends begin to trail in, and after they see X and look at me with utter perplexion, I have to explain who he is…which I’m starting to be perplexed about myself.

X is sitting in reserved table space so everyone has slowly converged at the bar. X is absorbed with text messages on his phone.

12:15some of us converge outside to smoke minus X

me: I don’t know what to do? I mean if he’s an agent, I don’t want to burn a bridge, but what the fuck?

girlfriend #1: This is insane, he’s insane. If he is an agent, you don’t want him anyway.

Bouncer who is at least 300 pounds: Miss, all I gotta do is go in and tell him he’s got to go.

I protest that that will look silly since there’s no obvious reason to eject him.

Bouncer: so?!

Bartender, also outside: What? I’ll do it, shit’s weird.

At this point, I decide “fuck it” and go party with my friends at the bar and dance, leaving X to text away and look perverted.

12:30girlfriend #1 to X: (getting drunk, annoyed tone) So is this how you normally pick clients?

X: (chuckling) She invited me.

GF1: Really? Well this is kind of a special private party. What are you doing here? It’s kind of weird.

X: (chuckles and flips it on GF1) You tell me what’s so special? Is she a special girl?

1:00GF3 to me: What is this guy doing here??! That’s it, I’m telling him to leave!30 seconds later, back to me, Ok, you’re not going home alone.

1:15X: Do you want to use my camera phone to take pictures, it has flash? me in my head: No I want you to leave, you crazed man!

me to X with flashy grin: No, thanks.

1:30X departs after giving me a hug.

1:30:30entire bar including staff cheers.

1:35Everyone enjoys drinks and dances to the incredibly good DJ.

3:30I go home alone.

Theories as to what the hell was going on with X’s interest and interactions with me that fateful night:

-he’s a legitimate professional who’s a little kooky and perhaps has no life.

-he’s a legitimate professional who’s a little kooky, perhaps has no life, who also happened upon my blog one day, clicked on the (now deleted) link to my myspace page, saw my picture and figured he’d pull some Hollywood producer, “You gotta pay to play” shit on me.

– he’s a whacko.

The next day, I get an email from X: “Tried to text you but it didn’t go through.I just wanted to thank you for inviting me to your party. I had a great time. happy happy birthday. talk soon. X”

I think it’s quite timely that I witnessed these occurrences when I did. Two days before my departure, as I’m enjoying myself with a New York hot dog and a NYmag in Washington Square Park…..

I’m sitting on a bench in the shade about a bench down from a black guy sitting alone. About 5 minutes later, this preppy-cool young white guy comes and sits between us and about 30 seconds later I hear some grumblings between them. At one point they look over at me and I of course bury myself more in my magazine with a “Iunno nuthin'” blank look on my face. When they turn around, I continue listening as much as possible. I don’t hear much of what the prep says but here’s what I got:

Prep grumbles, lights a cigarette

Guy on bench: “Well how much, I got-” (voice went to low to decipher)

Prep responds in grumblings and nods

Then they look at me again and I do my best ignorant/too cool to care pose.

Guy on bench: (sounding a little exasperated) “Just follow me, follow me.” Then he proceeds to stand up and walk about 300 feet away to the trees and I make sure not to keep looking as he looked at me one more time before leaving.

I turned 24 this past Monday on July 24th and I’m already feeling the aging. Literally at the stroke of midnight, after enjoying free Mexican food and margaritas courtesy of my filmmaker-slash-writer-slash-model-slash-cutesy Cafe Habana bartender, I started to feel the rumblings of something not quite right.

The next morning, I woke up to my new age a little hungover but also with a little, ahem, “tightness.” Nearly every morning, I have what the folks call a daily constitutional and alas, this lovely sunny birthday morning, that did not happen. The afternoon passed, nothing. The evening, nothing. The only passing that has occured is, sadly, time.

Second, I have noticed that the volume on my television and my iPod has been steadily going up and up. What was once for working out or perhaps, having my constitutional but not wanting to miss Nip/Tuck, is now just my normal listening level for music or television enjoyment. My friend recently told me it sounds like I’m shouting everytime I’m on the phone, even though I actually make attempts to sound quiet.

So I’ve decided to let this birthday be about acceptance. Of course I know I’m not OLD old, whatever that is, but I have got to just accept the permanent lower bloat of my stomach (my overdue constitutional notwithstanding), the permanent flab of the back of my arms, the odd spots that I know aren’t cancerous but just plain ugly, my sausage toes, the random bruises, the scars on my hands and legs, biting of my brittle nails, being short, having a (nice and lovely) large ass and small bosom (can it still be called a bosom when they’re B-cups?), big never-had-braces teeth, stuttering randomly, tripping for no apparent reason, being bitchy, sometimes being slutty, sometimes being bitchy and slutty, and I’m sure about eight other phsyiological things I just can’t sum up at the moment. These are physical and personal elements I’ve always thought would somehow someday change – that I’d one day metamorphasize into this 5’7, no hips-havin’, long glossy hair shakin’, wears high heels like it’s nothin’ epitome of fabulousness.

But to accept what I am and what I will somehow always be means also appreciating that I look sexy with no makeup, that I have impeccably clear golden skin, that I have lovely hands despite the scars, that I have a wicked fun sense of humor that’s as pleasant and as raunchy as a sailor on homecoming night, that thick lustrous hair runs in my family, that I can be slutty sometimes because I’m great at it, that I’m great at it, that my ass is amazing and my boobs are perky, that I have a killer smile despite my big ass teeth, I look hot in red lipstick and nothing else, that I am smart, well-read and I’m not afraid to show it, that I’m not an asshole about being smart and well-read, and I love to be in love, I really love to laugh, and that despite myself, I am fabulous.

I will always have these elements about me and that just has to be that…and I gotta stop battling my body (overdue constitutional notwithstanding) and start enjoying it because, cliched it may be, life really is too fuckin’ short.

Yet another eye-opening conversation with my good friend or nemesis on any given day. Not much analysis needed here, only that we were discussing the possibilities of us dating…and by the end of the convo, I think we can all estimate the reality of that happening. Just sit back and enjoy:

the boy: “You fantasize about me?”

me: “…I think about you and I, I fantasize about Blair Underwood, I fantasize about Brad Pitt, see what I mean?”

“…ugh, Brad Pitt, you and these white guys. “

“What? O come on, Hilary Duff!”

“…huh?”

“You used to say you liked Hilary Duff, and she’s white. “

“Oh, yeah, she can suck my dick, she got a sturdy chin like Cam’ron said.”

“…Jesus Christ.”

“What? Yeah she’s skinny now so you can really see the sturdiness. But I liked her when she had more weight, when she was young.”

Ok folks, I know I’ve been MIA, I know my blog has been looking and sounding like a piece of shit lately. My sincerest apologies for that. It’s been a transition for me recently and I’ve been hoppin’ all over the place, my friends hoppin’ from all over to see me. Things are finally winding down as I gather my bearings and get ready to leave this godforsaken-god-love-it city for Beantown (does anyone know why it’s called that?).

Soon I know I’ll have some sappy, silly post about leaving New York City but today, it’s the college years that I’m mulling over: six years ago my skinny-assed, naive 18 yr-old self came here to study. It was the last year of tokens, cheap cabs, and, well, the freedoms we took for granted before that fall of my sophmore year and the towers fell. I never hated the subway and the metrocard spending when I was in college – the beauty and fucked up-ness of dorming at NYU is walking everywhere because you’re in some of the best parts of the city. Then you graduate and its: “O shit, you mean I can’t live in the West Village/Financial District/East Village/Murray Hill anymore?… Why not?… I have to pay WHAT?” All of a sudden, gone are the days of last-minute plans and shelling out 3 bucks for a night on the town (because after first semester, I learned the duh-ness of never having to pay to get in anywhere), waking up in your bathtub with your friend somehow snuggled up in your bed….o wait, that last part was last weekend. But it damn sure cost me a helluva lot more than it used to!

I didn’t lose my virginity here but I might as well have. I had my first love here, my first job here, my first apartment, my first joy, and my first tragedy. I learned to laugh here and I’ve definitely cried my hardest here. I learned to be an opinonated woman is hard but to be an opinonated, smart and successful woman is plain dangerous (for who depends on the day). I learned that being called “articulate” isn’t necessarily a compliment. I’ve been counselled here on everything from money, drugs and, o yes, drinking to how to be on top, how to fake it, how to enjoy it, how to act around celebrities, how to get past the door, how to talk in an interview, when to call back, when not to call back, when to just write it off, when to hold on and how to turn down an approach by a man without the remote chance of being cussed out (turns out, that’s just impossible). And all of this before I walked down that stage to get my Bachelor of Arts degree in “Individualized Study.”

Anyways, I’m sure this isn’t the last post of corn, but right now apropos of catchin’ one of my fave bands at the hot-ass Siren Festival in Coney Island, this song seems just right for what I’m feeling re: leaving the city, leaving lovers, moving on, etc…

“The groups are being abetted, the report said, by pressure on recruiters, particularly for the Army, to meet quotas that are more difficult to reach because of the growing unpopularity of the war in Iraq. The report quotes Scott Barfield, a Defense Department investigator, saying, “Recruiters are knowingly allowing neo-Nazis and white supremacists to join the armed forces, and commanders don’t remove them from the military even after we positively identify them as extremists or gang members.”

Scientists find teenage drinking is even more harmful to the brain than we thought:

“As might be predicted, the cellular shutdown affected the ability of the younger rats to learn and remember. In other experiments, the team found that adolescent rats under the influence of alcohol had far more trouble than did tipsy adult rats when required repeatedly to locate a platform submerged in a tub of cloudy water and swim to it.”